Reflection: Tug of War

That’s been me—there in the middle of the spread—the Eight of Swords, paralyzed and stuck in the mud. For weeks I’ve been contemplating a new endeavor, one that involves risk and a significant commitment. Yesterday I took the leap and sent off an email to seal the deal. I shuffled the deck and drew these cards.

I laugh when I turn over The Fool. I can imagine him grabbing my 8 of Swords self by the arm and  running into the sun. My blindfold shakes loose and drops into a puddle. For a few moments I’m tangled in the ropes that bind me, but they, too, loosen and eventually fall behind. It feels good to run. The Fool is radiant, his laughter infectious. He’s got me by the hand now, and I manage, if barely, to keep up.  We’re approaching what looks like the edge of a cliff.

I turn over the Knight of Pentacles and can feel his lasso grip my waist. He pulls me steadily towards his horse, promising a safe ride in the opposite direction. I swing myself onto the back of the Knight’s saddle. The bulk of his armor leaves little room for me to stretch and is a bit stifling, though I do feel a comforting sense of security. We trod forward at a slow, steady pace.

It’s easy for The Fool to catch up. Soon his little white dog is yipping at the Knight’s horse. The Fool teases me with the pole of his knapsack, dares me to latch on.

We run, under the bright sky, towards the snow-capped mountains.